


My Brothers Keeper

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: NCIS: New Orleans
Genre: But he's working on it, Chris isn't okay, Comfort, Episode Tag, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post- My Brothers Keeper, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 05:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: Chris takes a look around his apartment, fighting the feeling of frustration and helplessness welling up inside of him. White and red paint cover the walls in chaotic patterns, drop clothes cover most of his possessions; it barely looks like home anymore. He hasn’t felt so displaced since he first moved in over a decade ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This deals with the events of My Brothers Keeper in season one of NCIS:NO. Cade, Christopher's older brother is Bi-polar, going without medication. He becomes manic, going on no sleep and is eventually hospitalized for it. I tried to capture some of what Chris might have been feeling in the days after. This is based in some ways on my own interactions with loved ones who are Bi-polar, so if there are any glaring mistakes or anything you find offensive please let me know! Any mistakes are my own. Title taken from the episode title.

Chris takes a look around his apartment, fighting the feeling of frustration and helplessness welling up inside of him. White and red paint cover the walls in chaotic patterns, drop clothes cover most of his possessions; it barely looks like home anymore. He hasn’t felt so displaced since he first moved in over a decade ago.

He looks around at the vivid splashes of red paint and tries to imagine what Cade was feeling when he did it, when he slipped and Chris wasn’t there to catch him _again_. The red lines look like fresh jagged wounds left open to become infected, festering blights. It’s hard to work up any energy for the task before him, let alone any enthusiasm for the job. His apartment is a brutal reminder that he’s failed Cade _again_ , that this time Cade was right there, within his reach and he still couldn’t help.

There are two cans of paint by his foot that he lugged home from the hardware store last night after work. It’s Saturday, barring any cases he has the day off, a full weekend to get his home repainted and work on putting his feeling of failure behind him. He nudges one with his boot, willing it to paint the walls itself, to take that responsibility away from him.

He wishes Cade were here, wishes his big brother was beside him, helping him paint over the angry red. He can imagine Cade’s smile too, just this side of frantic before he gets into a rhythm, soothed by the repetitive motions.

Chris wishes more than anything he was strong enough to be enough for Cade.

There’s a brief rapping on the door, and it eases open. Early morning light spills in and Chris realizes he’s left most of the blinds closed. There’s a stuffy, suffocating feeling to the apartment.

“Morning,” King steps through, a large paper bag in one arm. He’s dressed in old jeans and a threadbare grey t-shirt. It’s a good look on him. “Figured you wouldn’t have started yet.”

“What’re you doing here King?” Chris makes the circuit around his apartment, opening the blinds, propping open the windows to let the warm fresh air in. It helps.

“Here to help.” He deposits the bag on Chris’ cloth covered kitchen table. Chris wanders over for a closer look and is hit with the delicious mouthwatering smell he’s come to associate with King’s cooking.

“What’s that?”

King chuckles and pulls out a few Tupperware containers. “Lunch. Figured I could tempt you a bit.”

Oh Chris is more than a bit tempted.

“I appreciate the help.” He admits. For all that being alone suits his dark mood, he knows what he needs right now—a good dose of Dwayne Pride. It’s a sure fire way to get him out of his own head and they both know it.

“How is Cade doing?” King asks as he pries the lid off the paint tin, and Chris grabs a couple of fresh rollers for them.

“He’s taking the meds the doctors are giving him.” Chris shrugs, ducking his head. “So he’s doing better.”

“Hey,” King reaches out, squeezes his shoulder and lets his touch linger. “They’re going to take good care of him. You did the right thing.”

“I feel like I should have been able to do it myself,” he wipes a hand over his face, embarrassed when his throat grows tight and tears prick at the corner of his eyes. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s cried in front of King before but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“No, Christopher,” King murmurs and reels him in to wrap two strong arms around him. Chris shakes and tries to hold it together but he’s never been able to hide anything from this man. The tears are silent when they come, full of pain and frustration and the helplessness. “You can’t do everything yourself.”

“I thought this time,” he trails off unsure what he thought. That Cade would magically be better? No, he knew better. That he could be enough for his brother? Help him the way he helped Chris so many times when they were younger?

“Cade is still your brother, he’ll always be your brother.” King holds him close and Chris clings just as tightly. He’s probably soaking the other man’s shirt but he doesn’t complain. “Sometimes we need help. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Feel like I’m losing him sometimes.” He takes a steadying breath, feeling wrung out and exhausted but less like he’s going to break into a million pieces.

“I know.” King presses a kiss to his temple and Chris _wants_ in that moment more than he’s wanted anything. But King just eases back and steers him over to the couch, still covered in a stained, albeit dry, drop cloth. He sits Chris down and disappears for a moment, returning with two beers. “I think we’ll need these.”

Chris accepts his, accepts whatever status quo they have between them, as he always does, and clinks their bottles together.

“Early lunch and then we get to work?” King asks, offering him an out.

Chris gazes around the apartment. He’s sick of the red and the white and the chaos. He needs to be able to do something, to control an outcome. This, at least, he can do.

“Nah,” he takes a long swig of his beer. “Let’s get started.”  


End file.
